34. Evie
EVIE
We’re tucked into a small lounge adjacent to the family tunnel, a space dominated by a single coffee machine and a monitor looping post-game highlights, and Murphy stubbornly refuses to sit.
“He’s still tied up with the press,” a woman in a Kings quarter-zip informs us for the second time. “Another twenty minutes. Maybe thirty.”
“Son’s a blabbermouth,” Murphy grumbles, his eyes never leaving the hallway.
He’s white-knuckling the head of his cane while his other hand braces against a chair back. Every few heartbeats, he swivels to track the footsteps echoing in the corridor.
“Take a load off, Murph.”
He grunts. “I’ve done enough sitting to last a lifetime.”
“You’ve been vertical since the final horn sounded,” I say, “and your ankles are going to be a liability on the flight home.”
“Let ’em swell.” He jerks his chin toward the screen, where four men are dissecting his son’s performance. “Turn the volume up.”
“It’s already maxed out.”
On the monitor, Briggs is standing at a podium, a Kings cap tugged on backward, deferring credit to the rest of the room. He looks utterly drained and about ten years younger than he did back in February.
A small, hitching sound escapes Murphy’s throat.
“Don’t you go getting soft,” I warn him.
“I am perfectly composed.”
“You’ve been misty-eyed since midway through the third period.”
“Documented case of chronic dry eye,” he says, though he swipes a rough palm across his cheek regardless. “If we’re taking an inventory of tears, let’s talk about yours.”
“There was an airborne irritant in my eyes.”
He smirks. “In both of them.”
“The ventilation in this arena is notoriously poor, Murphy.”
He huffs a laugh that dissolves into a dry cough, which I let slide without the usual lecture, knowing he’d only snap at me for the concern.
The latch clicks at the twenty-six-minute mark.
Briggs fills the doorway, his suit jacket discarded and his tie trailing from a pocket. He makes a direct line for his father, and I watch as a six-foot-three professional athlete folds himself nearly in half to get his arms around him.
Neither of them says anything for a long, heavy stretch.
“You’ve filled out,” Murphy eventually murmurs into his shoulder.
“Yeah.”
“Put on some actual weight.”
“It’s called muscle, Dad.”
“That’s the party line, I’m sure.” Murphy pulls back just far enough to grip his son’s arms, eyes searching. “That pass was a piece of art.”
“Augie had the lane wide open.”
“I know he did. I saw it happen. I was there.” His composure finally fractures, the words dragging. “I was there, Briggs.”
Briggs closes his eyes and drops his forehead against the top of his father’s head.
I turn my focus toward the coffee machine, studying the chrome. When I look back, Briggs is finally watching me. He stays rooted in the center of the rug, hands loose at his sides, waiting for a signal that he’s welcome in my space.
So I bridge the gap to him instead.
He snakes an arm around my middle and hoists me up, my legs wrapping around him as he buries his face in the crook of my neck.
“Hi,” he breathes against my skin.
“Hi.”
“You’re here.”
“I’m here.”
“I looked for you in warm-ups, and the seats were empty.”
“I know.” I press my thumb into the seam of his sleeve. “We underestimated the time it would take to get here from the hotel.”
“Have you two eaten?” When we shake our heads, he says, “There’s a place four blocks from here. Dad, can you walk it with the cane, or do you want a car?”
“I can walk four measly blocks.”
I wince, and Briggs catches it. That’s a stretch on a good day. After a flight, a wheelchair through CLT, and three hours on his feet in that building, he’d make it two and a half and then have to prove he could do the rest.
“We’ll take a car,” Briggs says. “I don’t want to get stopped a hundred times anyway.”
The drive over to the bistro is quick. Briggs secures a corner table, where the waiter greets us, and Murphy orders a rib eye and a bottle of their most expensive cabernet. Briggs rolls his eyes but doesn’t comment on it.
“Give me the play-by-play,” Briggs says. “How’d you two end up on a plane together?”
“I made the request,” Murphy mutters. “That’s the beginning and the end of it.”
“That’s a gross oversimplification. He read the league standings at me for over a week.” I tear a roll in half, dousing it with butter. “Every single morning.”
Murphy tips his chin. “You required proper context to reach an informed conclusion.”
Briggs keeps his gaze fixed on his father, a shadowed expression in his eyes. “You orchestrated this.”
“I asked a woman for a favor, and she agreed.” Murphy adjusts his napkin. “She planned everything after that. Meds, the chair through the airport, the aisle seat, that gate agent who tried to flex his authority. She really went after him.”
I tsk. “He was being a dick.”
“She was terrifying,” Murphy adds.
Briggs looks at me but doesn’t say anything, a corner of his mouth raised. I have to hide behind my water glass to escape the heat of it.
When the food arrives, Murphy eats about a third of his steak, relitigating the game shift by shift. “Second period, when that defenseman ran you into the boards behind the net.”
“I remember,” Briggs says.
“That was interference, and they didn’t call it.”
“It wasn’t interference, Dad.”
“It was a stick foul, then, and if I’d been closer to the stripes, I’d have filed a formal complaint.”
By the time the plates go, Murphy’s beginning to fray. It happens fast with him—he’s fine, and then he’s gray around the mouth, his speech starting to slow down.
Briggs sees the shift before I do. “I’ll get the check,” he says. “Then I’m getting you both situated back at the hotel. Where are you staying?”
“The Ivey,” Murphy replies. “She’s got her own room. You’re staying with me.”
Briggs stops. “Pardon?”
“I’ve got an accessible suite with a couch because I have your black card.” He lifts his wine, looking entirely too pleased. “You can take the sofa. Watch me breathe. Ensure I don’t find the floor in the night.”
“Okay, that’s—”
“He’s baiting you,” I point out.
“I am.” Murphy sets his glass down. “You don’t need to hover over me all the time. In fact, I think Evie should go back to your place and leave me alone.”
I scoff.
Briggs sinks back in the chair and rubs a palm over his mouth. “You had a major medical event thirteen months ago. Excuse me for being cautious on occasion.”
Murphy grunts. “I flew across the country. I got myself up when you set up that goal, and nobody helped me. I was on my feet for all of it. Now I’d like to go to my fancy hotel and order room service in the morning because I’m not the one paying.”
“There’s an emergency cord in the bathroom,” I offer. “I checked the layout when we dropped the bags.”
Murphy grins. “Thank you.”
“I’m not on your side,” I say. “I’m just providing data points.”
“That’s exactly what an ally does.”
Briggs looks between us, hopeful and trying not to look it. “Do you want to come over tonight, Evie?”
I flew two thousand miles and hauled his father through an airport. Saying no now would be a waste of a very expensive gesture.
“Yeah,” I say. “I think we’re overdue for it.”
Murphy reaches over and pats his son’s forearm twice. “Take her home, would you. You’ve been miserable about it long enough.”
When we reach the Ivey, the doorman clocks the cane and comes out from behind the desk to walk Murphy to the elevator. Murphy lets him, which tells me exactly how far past his limit he is.
Briggs and I stand in the lobby watching the doors long after they’ve closed on him. The drive to his place is quiet. Neither of us reaches for the radio.
Inside, he flicks on a single lamp and stands there with his hands buried in his pockets. “Do you want—”
“I said some shitty things to you back in Vegas,” I cut in. “I was angry with you, but I know I went too far.”
He shakes his head, cupping a hand around his jaw. “Evie, you don’t have to—”
“I do, so just listen.” I set my bag down on a chair. “The part about you shutting people out? I meant that. I’d say it again sober. You know I’m right.”
“You are.”
“I wanted the other stuff to hurt you, though.” My voice thins out, losing its edge.
“Using your past like that was a cheap shot.” I force myself to meet his steady gaze.
“I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you that in person.
And I know ignoring you all this time was childish, but I didn’t know what to say. ”
He moves across the hardwood, stopping just inside the perimeter of my space. He doesn’t touch me, but he’s close enough that I have to tilt my chin to keep his eyes.
“You don’t owe me an apology for any of it,” he says gruffly. “I told you this before, but I want to say it properly.”
“Is it about that green dress again?”
He chuckles. “It’s about how I pulled away from you because you’re like medicine to me.
Being around you, talking to you—hell, even thinking about you—it makes the static stop.
I couldn’t allow that because I didn’t want to feel better.
I wanted to stay in the dark because that’s what I felt like I deserved.
But you didn’t deserve to be shut out. You didn’t deserve that at all. ”
“And you don’t deserve to treat yourself like that, either.”
He blows out a heated breath. “I should’ve been straight with you about the contract situation before the deadline noise started.”
I frown. “I didn’t even know leaving Charlotte was on the table.”
“It isn’t anymore. Ted wanted me to test the market, but I’m finished with that.”
“So what happens next?”
“I just signed with a new agent. We’re hoping to negotiate a long-term deal with the Kings. I want to stay put for a while, but I want to know if you’d be okay with that. If you’d consider being with me either way.”
I pull my lower lip between my teeth. “Even with the distance?”
“I want all of you, Evie. But I’m not going to lie and say I’ve got it all figured out.”
I blink, my heart thumping against my ribs. “What does that mean?”
“I’ve been talking this through with my therapist for weeks, so just let me get the words out.
” He exhales slowly. “Disappearing on Ophelia wasn’t a choice I made.
I didn’t wake up one day and decide to leave.
I just crawled into my own head and stayed there until four years had vanished and there was nothing left. ”
“That wasn’t your fault. She still cheated on you, Briggs.”
“She and Zig were sick and lonely. They had each other when I wasn’t there.”
The word snags on the way past. “Sick?”
“They were drinking. A lot.”
I have to look at the dark skyline to find my bearings. They were alcoholics. That’s what Ophelia must’ve finally told him last month. But that doesn’t make him a villain any more than it makes them monsters.
“That doesn’t mean you’re to blame.”
“No, but I did stop paying attention.” His eyes soften.
“If I stood here and promised I’d never do it again, you’d be smart to walk away, because I wouldn’t believe it, either.
What I can promise is that I’ll build a life where I’m not allowed to hide.
You can tell me. If I start going quiet or handling things alone, you call me on it, and I promise to hear you the first time. ”
I’d braced myself for the performative version—the polished, easy script about being a changed man. The fact that he’s refusing to offer the lie is surprisingly so much better.
“That’s the deal?” I ask softly.
“It isn’t a fairy tale, I’m aware.”
“No,” I murmur, “it’s better. Fairy tales are for people who don’t live in the real world.”
The tension drains out of his frame. “Yeah? So you’re saying—”
“I’m saying let’s try. For real.” I grab a fistful of his shirt and pull him an inch closer. “I’m going part-time at the funeral home next month. Tomás is giving me a chair. I’ll be drawing four days a week, and I can take a sketchbook anywhere I go.”
His throat bobs as he swallows. “Anywhere?”
“I’m not moving to Charlotte, Maxwell. Check your ambition.”
“How do you know what I’m thinking?”
“It’s written all over your face.”
“What if I told you,” he says, a smirk finally winning, “that I was thinking about getting you out of that coat. And that we can work out the rest of the details tomorrow.”
He reaches up, his hand warm as he brushes a stray strand of hair back from my face, his palm lingering there. The temperature in the room shifts.
“Then I’d tell you to hurry the hell up with it.”